


After

by HallowedHope



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: After Stock Exchange, Angst, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Neurological Disorders, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 07:35:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12164394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallowedHope/pseuds/HallowedHope
Summary: You realise that this started from nothing. And then spiralled, to the point where you've begun to need Sameen, the point where you can't handle it now that she's gone.





	After

After, Root wanders the streets aimlessly. Almost unconsciously, her feet toe the well-worn lines of the shadow map, and even in her state of detached cool, she knows the rules of survival, has them burnt into her skin, scarred into her flesh, branded into her mind in hot, bright streaks of red.

 

  1. _Stay alive._
  2. _Keep your teammates alive._
  3. _Kick Samaritain in the ass._



 

And today, the acrid scent of fire and seared flesh smells like failure. 

 

***

 

You’re not really sure when it all went wrong. Maybe the moment you chose to save the world, the moment you stepped into the Stock Exchange on a mission you knew was suicide. Maybe the moment Sameen emerged out of the smoke, guns blazing, eyes filled with fire and force. Maybe the moment you realised that the elevator was the only way out, the moment you stared at that gated door and knew it was your only ticket to salvation. 

 

Maybe it was the moment your eyes met. The moment you stared at that button in hopeless terror, knowing someone had to push it. The moment her lips met yours, in a kiss that was more pain than passion, desperation and hunger all caught up in one terrifying whirlwind. The moment you heard the latch click shut, the moment you heard the gunfire, the moment you saw her fall. 

 

Or maybe, the path to hell began with good intentions. Began months, years ago, with your unconscious choice to begin flirting with her. A careless word here, a teasing innuendo there, a light touch in the backseat of a fast car. Small moments, piling up until now, when you can no longer find the critical point of failure.  


Until now, when at midnight, on the streets of the city, you realise that somehow you can no longer function without her.

 

***

 

When the clock strikes one, Root finds herself at the doorstep of a familiar apartment. How she got there is unclear, and all she knows is that somehow, tonight of all nights, her feet have chosen to bring her here. With a resigned sigh, she breaks out her lockpicks and goes to work on the door, pushing the pins up one by one, working her way to success. It is a matter of minutes before she turns her wrist and the lock clicks. It is only a matter of minutes because her fingers have travelled this lock many times before, and she knows exactly how to crack it.

 

Walking into the apartment feels to her like sacrilege, in a way it never has before. Root has made no secret of her liberal moral code, and it makes no sense that tonight, when there is no one home to notice her intrusion, when there is nothing she wishes to steal, nobody she wishes to kidnap, that tonight of all nights is the night her guilt chooses to act up. But somehow, in the stale stillness of the air, Root feels like she does not belong here.

 

Somehow, without anyone to snap at her for breaking in yet again, she feels more unwelcome than ever.

 

***

 

You've never really explored Sameen's house. In the many months you have known her, you've never truly had cause or opportunity to. She would always be there, distracting you from your curiosity with a sarcastic rebuke, or, more often than not, a well-placed slap. Either way though, you've only imagined what you think it to be like.

 

Dark. Somber. Spartan. Perhaps with a few medical supplies lying around, needles mixed in with her favourite handgun, tourniquets thrown in with the smoke grenades. Some nights, as you work on a mission, you think of Sameen puttering around her apartment, showering, doing the laundry, and finally curling up in her sheets, and you snort to yourself. Imagining Sameen in domestic scenarios, instead of dodging gunfire or whatever other violent tasks she seems to do in her spare time, feels foreign and strange, and it has never truly sunken in for you that she must do these things, no matter how unheroic they may seem.

 

Sameen has never struck you as anything less than brimfire and lava, and to think that she becomes a gentle wind at the end of her day, is akin to thinking of a God brought down to the mortal realm.

 

***

Finally into Sameen's apartment, Root begins to look around, and then to amble through the home. Stopping occasionally to examine the odd trinket or brush her hand across some furniture, Root makes her way into the various rooms of the small abode, nothing striking her as particularly special in any way.

 

Not quite sure what she is looking for, Root unceremoniously pushes the last door open, walking halfway in before realising that this is Sameen's bedroom. Shrugging, she turns back, remembering what this room looked like from her rather successful kidnapping of Sameen in the months preceding, and seeing no need to waste time on exploration of this particular space.

 

Root almost makes it out the door before a dull metallic glimmer catches her eye. Turning back, fully expecting to find a rifle or another similar instrument of mass destruction, Root is instead greeted by the sight of a medal, hanging from the desk-side lamp. This unexpected sight is enough to pique her curiosity, and in the next instant, she has it in her hand.

 

Turning it over, she notes the Russian writing on it, something about valour and courage in battle. Her rusty Russian is not enough to decipher the full message, but she dimly recalls that such medals, Order of Lenin medals, were only given to Russian troops, at least ten years ago. She has no explanation for how such a medal ended up in Sameen's possession instead.

 

Either way, she acknowledges the truth of the prize. Valour and courage were words that described Sameen, in ways that sociopath would not. Sameen's actions just yesterday would have served to prove the point to all but the greatest of skeptics.

 

For now though, Root is unwilling to wax lyrical on Sameen's shining personality traits. In fact, she does not feel like doing much at all, feels nothing but a stirring curiosity with regards to the true owner of the medal, and a sudden tiredness now that she has reached the end of her escapade.

 

Sinking down, Root lies back on Sameen's bed and shuts her eyes, falling asleep with the skin-warmed metal still clutched in her palm, cutting lines into her flesh.

 

***

 

You've never really understood your reaction to Sameen's loss, even after she returned and you finally had a clear enough head to rationalise it to yourself. Mentally, you knew that, for that night at least, you had been in shock. You knew that you were responding to the loss of a valuable team member, and doing it in the only way you could, by setting aside your cheery façade and being strangely melancholy for the first time in months. You understood all of that.

 

What you didn't understand was why, even after the first nights, the first weeks, the first months had passed, you would return to her apartment every night, break your way in, and curl up in her bed, the cool metallic touch of that medal lulling you into a restless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Not many notes, but this is simply a one-shot of Root, after the Stock Exchange, and discovering a whole new side of Shaw that she doesn't quite understand, especially in terms of the medal. I may or may not continue it with Root meeting Gen, depending on the response to this.


End file.
